


Loyalty

by OneSmartChicken



Series: Sociopathic Empath Joan Watson and the Messes She Gets Into (and Out Of) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF!John, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Genderswap, Joan Watson - Freeform, Magical Realism, Moriarty flirts with John/Joan, Pre-Slash, absolutely no fucking research was done oops sorry, empath!John, fairly dark but not really a dark fic, fem!Moriarty, i have no idea how to tag this, sociopath!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:14:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2509094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneSmartChicken/pseuds/OneSmartChicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a soldier, a doctor, and an empath, and not much in the way of morals. There's a lot of exasperation though, and someone is very loyal, very fast.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>**Not intended to be an accurate portrayal of sociopathy or really anything. at all. ever.**</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loyalty

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a thing no one asked for, no one wants, and three people are going to read. I'm not going to make excuses. I'm not going to apologize for this bullshit. I will say, you should read the notes for the series as they've got warnings (and, actually, apologies).
> 
> This is un-beta'd or -britpicked, and unless you want to beta or britpick for me, I'd druther you not complain. I would love feedback though, I just...don't feel like stressing over this. It's something I wrote for fun, because the idea appealed, and hopefully you'll enjoy it. Hopefully you'll enjoy it enough to come back and read what is essentially a bunch of spin-offs I have of this (I wrote AUs of an AU).
> 
> Oh I guess I will mention that I tend to do character studies by...genderswapping. I don't know why, but that's...that's a thing. Also I'm terrible at characterization, especially in this verse, but I realized I enjoy fics with poor characterization so maybe it's okay.
> 
> ~~Somebody say something nice please~~ and tell me any tags you think this needs because I can't bloody think of any
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock, Joan, and Moriarty are gender and sex swapped, assumed cis fem.  
> This part subscribes to the headcanon (sort of???) I picked up from _somewhere_ that Sherlock shoots the Semtex vest after pulling it off John, and there's a small but overall harmless explosion. It'll confuse you if you're not ready for that. I only remembered it wasn't actually canon after writing that bit and then I didn't feel much like changing it.  
>  This assumes knowledge of the first and possibly second season (I can't remember what season everything happened in tbh) but considering I last watched either season like, over a year ago, you're probably good if you just...get the gist. It follows the timeline more-or-less though, so there's a fair amount that's lacking detail mostly because I didn't want to go rewatch the episode(s) just to get something precisely right.  
> This is essentially the "base" AU from which the rest of this loose series thing evolved, and it's probably best to read it before reading the rest, but not strictly necessary(It's...I'm actually not a big fan of this at this point, but several of the follow-ups are actually a lot of fun).

_"You were such a creepy kid,"_ Harry told her one day, when she was sod-off drunk and Joan still loved her. _"Always fuckin starin."_ This was true.

Joan knew she had never been what one might term "normal;" not honestly, at least. It had been far more obvious when she was an infant and then a toddler, before she learned. She did stare, she stared at everyone, just stared and stared. She almost never cried, but she also never smiled. Not once did she smile. And then one day when she was four years old, she and her mother went to the grocery store, and she spotted another little girl and her mother. That was when she learned that mothers were not supposed to be frightened of their little girls(she did not know about little boys, but was not concerned with them). She watched that expressive child the whole time they were in the store, and as they were leaving, she looked up at her mother and she smiled. Her mother cried, and for the first time, Joan felt her mother consumed with joy. Joan felt immensely pleased, having not only accomplished her goal, but learned that someone else's joy could bring her joy. She tested this theory by smiling at someone on the way home, and they beamed, waving, as happiness bubbled out from them. Joan had felt...nothing. But her mother saw, and was overjoyed again, and so Joan began to smile all the time.

Joan was six, Harry thirteen, when their mother died. When Joan was nearly eight, she had her nose broken for the first time. By her father, no less. Joan had begun to smile for Harry after their mother's funeral, and so she began to protect her older sister as well. She drew their father's wrath even when Harry was seeking to protect _her,_ and she did it all the more doggedly when she realized that her pain tolerance was apparently much higher than Harry's. When Harry was seventeen, she moved out. Joan did not go with her; she didn't mind. She knew Harry would have taken her if she could, for one, and for another, without Harry to protect, Joan was much better at hiding.

When their father died, Harry was twenty and Joan was fourteen. She went to live with her sister, and learned she had become a drunk. Joan was disappointed. But still, she loved Harry, even if part of her recoiled immensely from the alcohol. She began to help Harry to quit, and when she was not quite fifteen, she found a girl who looked very much like Harry, and she found a new and thorough pleasure which she took to rather like how Harry had taken to drink, although Joan tried never to think of it that way. After her third 'girlfriend'--she let them use the word if they liked, and she was monogamous of they wanted her to be, but she had no attachment to her partners outside of sex--she discovered a very pretty boy, and then broadened her horizons when she realized her inherent dislike of males did not extend to sex.

Scholarships took her to medical school, since "monumental slut" could not actually be put on record, and she was never actually _caught_ fighting. She had decided when she was young that she should learn medicine, since it would certainly help keep herself and Harry alive longer. It was a pleasant surprise to also form two new "attachments" in college, only one of which she slept with, a lovely redhead(Joan had learned she did not express a preference in physical appearances, sexually or otherwise, despite her first sexual encounter being caused by a girl resembling Harry) by the name of Becky Wrights. Becky was the best sexual and only romantic partner Joan had ever had. But Becky moved to America, and Joan found she could not manage a long distance relationship. Not with Becky Wrights, who writhed in the sheets and purred when Joan bit her. She could also not maintain one with Michelle Stamford, who had been an exceptionally ordinary girl as well as John's surprisingly amusing and tolerant roommate.

She went into the army as soon as she had her PHD; not a surgeon, just a rather very basic medical doctor in truth, but that was all she required. The army was because she needed to learn how to prevent harm from occurring in the first place, naturally, although it was also convenient for gaining hands-on experience in medical work. She did not appreciate when the military attempted to metaphorically _bench_ her, but did not voice a protest--not that she did not protest, she simply did not do so vocally. She followed orders to the letter, and only the letter; she was, as it turned out, very creative when she chose to be. And also very good at wearing an innocent face and endearing people to her cause. When she had the time to spare, she practiced in the shooting range, until she was certain _Joan Watson would not miss._ That was, after all, her goal as far as guns went. She considered practicing only the handgun, but her new found creativity conjured scenarios in which threats to herself and Harry, and now Sergeant Melissa Thompson who liked to keep Joan company in and out of bed, and so she learned a variety of guns to a satisfactory imitation of perfection. And when she saw fit, she put herself on the front lines, and into enemy hands, and she learned how to fight, mean and dirty and thorough. She was not satisfied until she could put people two and almost three times her weight down in under a minute, dead or unconscious. She learned just the right angle to break a neck, how to break a knee with a kick, an arm with an elbow, a sternum with the butt of her rifle. She learned what she didn't have the strength for, and what she could falsify the strength for.

She never got promoted very far, not until she got shot. They made her a captain, and then they sent her home.

Joan only minded because she wouldn't have the opportunity to learn how to alter her learnings to suit her new injuries. She did not doubt she would make a swift recovery.

And then she remembered that she no longer loved Harry. And Mel was dead.

Clara had called her, while she was in Afghanistan, only three weeks before she was shot, a week before Mel met an IED up close. She told her about Harry's drinking. She told her Harry had hit her ("A slap, nothing lasting, but I can't stay with her like this, Joan.")

Joan didn't really understand why it mattered (she certainly didn't love Clara) but somehow, she could no longer love Harry. The two weeks without anyone to love had been the cause of her distraction, but somehow during her recovery she had...forgotten. She went to see Harry, to make sure. Harry threw her a bottle at her.

Harry came by the next day, but Joan did not love her anymore. Harry left her a cell phone, _"Call me, please,"_ and Joan began walking with a cane. She talked to a therapist. She told the clinical truth. She didn't know what the emotional truth was, so she lied, and watched the woman make odd notes in her book. No one noticed the way Joan faded. Not even Joan.

She had new truths to adjust to.

Joan did not love Harry anymore. Mel was dead. Mum was dead. Becky was in America. Michelle...Joan walked through a park and wondered about Michelle instead of the war and whether or not she wished her shooter had been a better shot.

She thought at first it was her imagination, the sound of her name being called. But she turned around and there was a chubby woman, hair back in a tail and face lit up in a huge smile, bundling towards her.

Joan did not know her at first, did not associate this rounded woman with the soft young woman who had sat on her bed at night and talked to Joan even if Joan did not talk back. But she said 'Michelle' and Joan could see it, the gleam in eyes that had always known when Joan was enjoying Michelle's talking, or when Joan truly did want quiet. The wide mouth that Joan had pressed a kiss to, felt it curl under her own as Michelle fought back a laugh, under a game of Truth or Dare, which Becky had told her was an exception in their rules of monogamy. Neither Becky nor Joan were overly concerned with physical monogamy anyway, although Joan had made it clear that she was possessive. _"My body is my own but not my heart, got it,"_ Becky had laughed and Joan had loved her.

She smiled for Michelle, realizing only then that she had not bothered to smile in weeks, no longer having anyone to please. They sat and had coffee and Michelle was not the same as Joan remembered, but Joan was not the same either so it was fair enough. Joan realized as she sipped her hot, bitter drink, that she did not love Michelle and never would again, but she still...enjoyed her company. She did not mind even when Michelle had her limping back to Bart's with her, off to see a flatmate. Joan did not want a flatmate, but Michelle was, as ever, persistent, and Joan could not be bothered to resist her for long.

Meeting Sherlock was not like lightning. It was not like getting shot or baptized, it was not drowning or operating, it was not a punch in the gut or a broken nose. Meeting Sherlock was, absurdly, simply, soft.

In a cold morgue, abandoned by Michelle, alone with a strange, beautiful woman who asked her _"Afghanistan or Iraq?"_ Joan smiled.

She went to see the flat.

Mrs. Hudson was lovely, and Joan hummed to learn her husband had died, that Sherlock had ensured the occurrence. Looking at Mrs. Hudson, she thought that anyone whose death pleased her deserved to be death.

She didn't understand why Mrs. Hudson thought they wouldn't need the second bedroom, though, not until the talk of "all sorts" and the "boys next door." It took a moment for her mind to click over, for her to figure out the correct response, to attempt to deny. "Attempt" because the sweet little old lady was rather determined not to listen.

Joan figured it didn't matter so much. After all, she did not love anyone.

Lestrade caught them both by surprise, and Joan watched in puzzlement as they had their exchange. The silver-haired man seemed annoyed, but determined, and tolerant, perhaps fondly. They were clearly not friends, however, or at least neither considered the other to be a friend. She watched as Lestrade left, considering him, then jumped nearly out of her skin at Sherlock's gleeful shout.

"Serial suicides!"

"I'm sorry, what?"

She was ignored, which didn't really surprise her, not with Sherlock swirling about like a dervish with a flair for the dramatic. Oddly enough, she very nearly smiled again, as Sherlock pulled on her big, ridiculous coat. Which was stupid. Joan had no reason to smile, not anymore, she knew that. But this ridiculous woman was just so--so! She clutched at her cane and watched, bemused.

Sherlock was off in a swoop down the stairs, and there was Mrs. Hudson, puttering about.

Joan didn't smile for her, couldn't muster it quite, but she made appreciative noises at the offer of tea. Asked for biscuits as well; she had always had a sweet tooth. She pressed her fingertips into her thigh hard enough to burn, and with flinty eyes she thought about smashed bottles and explosions and blood that soaked into her skin and never, ever went away.

"You were a doctor."

She stared at her, at the mad woman who seemed to move at a pace completely her own, separate from the world, above and below it all.

"Yes," she confirmed.

"Any good?" _Any good._ Joan mentally scoffed as she drew herself up, rightly proud. She had not had a passion for medicine, but when Joan put her mind to something, she damn well did it.

_"Very_ good," she answered, soldier firm.

"Seen a lot of death then? Violence?" Sherlock inquired, a glint in her eyes, head cocked inquisitively, like a crow staring down a walnut.

Joan thought of pushing through to the front line, of her hands in a man's body, of pulling fragments of bone and metal and coins out of body after body after body. She thought of pulling the trigger like a punch to her own body, then doing it again and again and again until she barely noticed the recoil at all. Fire burned behind her eyes and Mel screamed and the bullet tore through her shoulder as if to drive the point home; _alone._

"Yes," she nodded. "Yes, enough for a lifetime. More than enough." And she didn't think of wrestling a bear of a man to the ground, of breaking a neck with her bare hands, of the first time she proved herself a crack shot on the battlefield. She didn't.

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock asked and Joan couldn't contain herself.

_"God, yes,"_ she blurted out like the words were torn out of her, like they'd been in a bubble all her life, growing and growing and growing, just waiting for Sherlock to make them burst free. Sherlock was loping off, and Joan was on her heels, fast as she could with her cane and her limp and her shoulder and she should have loathed it but she didn't love anyone and she just couldn't be bothered pretending anymore. Not just then.

Joan didn't try to smile at anyone at the crime scene, too busy trying to follow a mad woman. They kept stopping her, and it was damned annoying, especially considering their useless commentary. And Sherlock--Ms. _High-Functioning Sociopath._ Joan could have laughed. If Sherlock was a sociopath, Joan was a field of daisies. She could _feel_ Sherlock's heart thundering, her emotions like an avalanche no matter how well she blocked them, and the hell of it was that Joan didn't even _want_ to block them. She wanted to let Sherlock's unique emotions sink into her skin and sweep her away. They were fantastic, honestly.

And then it got better. Because Sherlock wasn't just brilliant, she was a genius. She was more than a genius. She was--Joan didn't even know the words to describe her, couldn't do anything but breathe her awe and watch like a gobsmacked pigeon as she _deduced._

Joan never wanted to leave.

She didn't particularly want to interrupt the stream of genius with her ordinary, boring doctor observations. Sherlock had clearly spotted them all anyway, genius that she was, but Joan knelt obligingly at her insistence, and she did her best.

And then it was the deduction show again, which was so much better.

_"If you were dying,"_ Sherlock said, and Joan clenched her jaw. Because this wasn't something she talked about. Joan didn't even _think_ about it. Never let herself. Because that was--that was a dark place, even for her. 

She glared at the floor, trying not to snap, refusing to say anything.

"Think, Joan!" Sherlock insisted and Joan's glare rose to her face, jaw tightening until her teeth ground together almost painfully. "Use your imagination!"

"I don't have to, Sherlock," she hissed, voice nearly inaudible.

The consulting detective paused. That was not something she had deduced, Joan surmised, or perhaps it had slipped her mind. Strangely, that made her almost feel...better. That day being so blessedly unimportant to Sherlock. She could understand why people thought Sherlock was a sociopath, really. But it was still ludicrous.

Curiosity flickered in Sherlock's eyes, and for a moment Joan thought the idiot was actually going to persist in that line of questioning, but silvery eyes twitched towards Lestrade and Anderson, and the deduction was on again. Not rache, apparently.

Also, pink. Very emphatically, loudly, pink. Joan limped out after Lestrade just in time to see Sherlock's short, messy black curls disappear.

"There she goes," Lestrade sighed, put-upon.

Joan didn't sigh until she got outside and there was a cop 'warning' her, off Sherlock. Joan refrained from insulting her largely out of habit, and asked after a taxi.

Then she did sigh, and privately admitted that Sherlock was a bit of a prick.

Still. At least she wasn't boring.

Her "arch nemesis" turned out to be a bit of a prick too. Umbrella-toting bastard. ( _"You don't seem frightened," he said. "You don't seem very frightening," Joan shrugged, bored, bored, **boring**._ ) She turned him down mostly because he annoyed her, honestly. Even if she had been inclined to spy on Sherlock, she would certainly not have elected to meet with this man or anyone associated with him on a regular basis. At least she got a ride from him, sparing her damned leg(psychosomatic? Interesting. Could sociopaths maintain psychosomatic limps? Maybe she would ask Sherlock).

Text messages to murderers, dinner and awkward conversations--she wondered later if she should have asked after casual sex, and was puzzled to realize she didn't want that, not from Sherlock--and then a run through the streets, a man handing her her cane with a grin and a wink, and laughter, so much laughter. Joan didn't even know she could laugh like that.

So she had a flatmate, she supposed, because nothing could drive her away from this, away from _adventure_ and the gun in the back of her pants where it belonged and Sherlock's absolutely, splendidly mad grin. Joan practically basked. She didn't show it though, for various reasons. For one thing, she at least recognized that she should not enjoy this, and she forgot that she no longer cared about shoulds.

For another, Sherlock was still a bit of a prick. Joan did not want to encourage her; if Sherlock made everyone in the word loathe them, it would greatly limit their adventures. She would have to make friends with Lestrade herself, Joan thought, eying the people who had come for a "drug's bust."

It was stupid of her, but she protested--couldn't imagine this mad woman harming herself in that way. But, well. People did mad things. Joan would have to put a stop to that though. Immediately.

Sherlock, the git, ran off for her cab before Joan could start in, and apparently the police were satisfied.

And so Joan was alone again. It felt a bit like all the wind had gone out from beneath her sails. She wobbled faintly, then sighed, glancing around the flat.

She would have laid down, maybe, thought about her changed life. Maybe she would have changed her mind, too. Would have decided to head back to her bedsit. The laptop interrupted, and Joan had to catch a cab, and she never really got the chance to change her mind.

The recoil felt good. Like stumbling home at night to find the lights still on, waiting for her.

Sherlock was impressed.

Joan figured she would follow this mad genius anywhere, and she didn't mind the thought.

It wasn't until that night, settling into her new bedroom, that she realized something unprecedented had happened: She had found a new person to love. Joan thought that was just fine, and she hardly dreamed at all that night (she added a note in the morning to the mental list of questions to someday ask Sherlock; could sociopaths have PTSD? Clearly they could, since Joan did).

 

 

They had been living together for five months, about three of which had been spent on various cases. Joan had developed a Pavlovian response to quite a few things (namely things like, say, if Sherlock ran, Joan ran after her. Joan felt a little like a duckling). She had succeeded in making friends with Lestrade, enough that sometimes they went to a pub together and she occasionally called him Greg. Lestrade was married and a loyal sort, although he and his wife had more than their fair share of issues, which contributed to his spot of "Safe" in Joan's mind.

Of course, Sherlock didn't view it the same way. At least, not when she was in a pique.

Joan didn't even notice her flatmate when she walked into the flat, just a little unsteady from the three pints she'd had with Greg(he was becoming more Greg than Lestrade, at least on pub nights). She tugged her coat off with a sigh, hanging it on the rack, and just about jumped out of her skin and/or shot something when Sherlock spoke up.

"Still flirting with normalcy?"

Joan released the hilt of her gun, which she carried any time she left the flat, tucked into the back of her pants like a cold security blanket. She glared at Sherlock, perched like a damn gargoyle in the center of the couch, her shoulders hunched and curls even more wild than usual.

"What are you on about now?" Joan snipped, annoyed to have been jolted out of her pleasant, fuzzy mood.

Ironically, yes, she had been feeling something approaching normal. Now it was gone, though. Naturally, because of Sherlock. It was hard to tell if she minded.

"Oh come now, we both know you are no more heterosexual than you are a house fly," Sherlock huffed, glaring as if Joan were the one being an arse. She made a noncommittal noise and Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Don't be purposefully obtuse."

"Oh I assure you, I'm not," Joan drawled. She tugged at the sleeve of her jumper, considering the knitting absently. She really didn't understand why everyone seemed so offended by her wardrobe. It was sensible, and comfy. But that was a bit off topic, clearly. "Please, enlighten me to whatever hair-brained conclusion you've come to about me recently, oh brilliant sun of my life." It was fun to mislead with the truth.

Sherlock's fingers steepled. Deduction show it was, apparently. "You are clearly attempting to further the facade of normalcy by falsifying a relationship between yourself and DI Lestrade, although I admit I cannot imagine why you would feel the need. I assume it is a leftover habit from the army, or perhaps earlier than that. Your father did not approve of Harry's sexuality, correct? You likely did not want to cause trouble by revealing you shared her preferences. Dull." Joan snorted.

"Obviously. Which is why you felt the need to deduce it and then harass me about it," Joan drawled, settling into her chair now that she knew Sherlock had in fact merely come up with another daft assumption. Joan wondered if her acting confused Sherlock's senses, or if she was simply an exception for Sherlock. The mad woman opened her mouth, likely to provoke, and Joan cut her off with, "I'm not pretending at heterosexuality."

Sherlock scowled. "Joan," she started.

"Oh, do shut up," Joan growled, a tone she had discovered always got Sherlock's attention, at least for a moment. She had made certain to use it very, very sparingly. "I'm not pretending to be heterosexual, Sherlock--I'm not...straight, and I never have been. If other people assume it, I don't care, and if they realize I'm gay, I don't care either. Honestly, I'm only pursuing friendship for the sake of friendship with Greg." That shut the wanker up. Joan huffed, anger flickering through her--which was practically a rage for her, as far as friends (allies, comrades, Sherlock) were concerned.

"You don't pursue women," Sherlock frowned.

"There was Sarah," Joan pointed out.

"You referred to her as a friend."

"Shockingly, we did not jump to girlfriends even after having fantastic sex," she drawled, nails drumming against her thigh. "I don't have a particular inclination towards a long term relationship right now, Sherlock. I haven't even been that long home. And between you, and your Work, and my work, I've hardly got the time." Joan had the time. Joan could damn well make time. Joan didn't feel like faking an emotional attachment. Sarah was an acquaintance, a hot one. Greg was a surprisingly amusing one, one who might even become something like a friend after a while. Really though, Joan just didn't give a damn about anyone. No one but Sherlock.

It was unhealthy, awful, and probably nothing Sherlock wanted. Joan didn't care about anything but that last part, which was why she hadn't mentioned it. Sherlock was 'married to her Work,' and Joan didn't mind. She wasn't a jealous person; that just wasn't how she loved, with the exception of Becky when she was young and foolish.

Sherlock could do whatever she liked. Hell, Sherlock could date, fuck, love, anything she liked. All Joan cared about was that no one ever attempt to separate the two of them.

Ever.

Sherlock was frowning more now. "You have...casual sex?" Joan could practically _see_ the damn clockwork turning in her mind.

"Yes, Sherlock," she sighed. "I have casual sex. I had quite a lot in university. There was even an orgy or two." Six. There had been six orgies. They had been surprisingly fantastic. "Do you want to study me? Is this another experiment?" She imagined telling Sherlock about her sexual exploits, about the skills she had learned--she swallowed, and it wasn't in a nervous way.

"That does not fit your character," Sherlock decided.

"What? Sherlock, how many times do I have to tell you that people are not _characters_ in some stage play, we do not have neat little labels." Joan set her fists on her hips and glared.

"I'm not talking about _people,"_ Sherlock spat, expression morphing into a full scowl. "I'm talking about _you._ You have a character, Joan Watson. You always fall within certain parameters that you consider 'good' and 'normal.' This--casual sex? _Orgies?"_ Joan did not shudder, piss off, although she did memorize the sound of Sherlock saying that word because it was _Very Nice_. "This is outside your parameters."

Joan groaned. This was true. It was. But dammit, she liked sex, and she really did not intend to adjust for society's stupid viewpoints on that subject. "Casual sex is not a bad thing, Sherlock," she snapped, 'end of discussion' tone engaged.

Sherlock was eying her, but she had better things to do that argue with her (no she didn't). She stomped into the kitchen to make tea.

After a moment, Sherlock called out, "Milk, two sugars." No one was watching anyway, so Joan allowed herself a smile.

 

 

_"You're terrifying, Watson."_

_Joan considered this, thought over the past few days. Hours. Weeks and months. She grinned, the one that she didn't allow herself usually, the one that made people shiver. "I'm told a woman in love is a dangerous thing."_

_Greg shuddered, but didn't so much as shift away from her. "If this is what you're like in love, I'd rather not see you when you hate."_

_Joan had to pause at that. She had never bothered to hate anyone before. Hate was supposed to be the exact opposite of love. Was she capable of hate? She hummed. "That would be interesting," she said agreeably, and went back to sipping her pint, undisturbed by knuckles left bloody after a bout of fisticuffs. Sherlock's fault, of course._

_Greg wasn't concerned when her mask slipped a bit, when she sipped at a pint and told him what had really happened, what hadn't gone into the reports. She knew Greg was telling someone else, but since she was fairly certain that person was Mycroft, she didn't care. Mycroft wouldn't do anything to endanger his sister, and no one could deny that Sherlock was safer with Joan than alone._

 

 

Moriarty caught her on her way to the grocery store. "Thanks for at least catching me before I bought the groceries," was the first thing out of her mouth when they pulled the canvas sack off her head. "Very considerate of you." She smiled at Jen. It was surprising, but maybe not as surprising as it could have been. Joan recognized a kindred spirit. Or lack of spirit, maybe. She had considered warning Matty, but hadn't concerned herself particularly over it. Not with Sherlock acting so...off.

"What?"

Oh, apparently Jen didn't recognize what Joan was. She had--not expected that, admittedly. Too late now, really.

"So did you already have a flirt with Sherlock? She's on her way, I assume? Could you maybe untie these ropes, they're really uncomfortable." She bounced her bound hands against the back of the chair. Moriarty glared at her, unamused. Joan shrugged. "They are."

Jen made a disgusted sound. "Wrong!" she cried, and Joan turned her head with the slap. _More schizophrenic than sociopathic,_ she guessed, although not with much intent; the psychiatric side of health was far from an exact science, even further than most doctoring. "You are not supposed to be like--this!" she hissed the words, gesturing angrily to all of Joan.

"Uh," Joan tilted her head. "Sorry? I didn't exactly choose to be like this though. Take your complaints to a higher power of your choosing. Please." Being polite to crazy people when they held you hostage seemed smart. Joan, of course, didn't use the term 'crazy' lightly. Jen, though, was definitely of the _certifiable_ variety. Which could potentially be fun, truth be told, but Joan had no wish to play with Jen--not when the woman had fixated on Sherlock in so horrible a fashion.

It was making Joan self-conscious about her own feelings for the consulting detective. She did not at all enjoy the similarities between herself and Moriarty.

"Sherlock and I are the same, don't you see?" Jen was smiling again, hands tucked into her pockets, cheeks slightly pink, like a blushing schoolgirl. Joan resisted the urge to melodramatically gag. "We're going to play a game, and you are going to be my _pawn!"_

_I wonder what the US is like this time of year,_ Joan pondered. _I could probably talk Sherlock into visiting at least one of the states, and then it's just a matter of preventing her from flying home. Destroy her passport? But how long would we have to stay away to avoid this nonsense?_ Joan quite liked London, even if she still got the shivers even on _nice_ days, after Afghanistan. And Sherlock would probably demand an explanation...She sighed; it looked like they would have to deal with this after all.

"She's not a sociopath," Joan remarked pleasantly. "She's really quite different from you. Although she would probably enjoy a game. I don't. I don't enjoy games." _And it is really my opinion you should be concerned with._ Joan's expression was bland. Boring. Just like the rest of her.

"Of course not," Moriarty cooed, pouting exaggeratedly. "People are _dying."_

"Mm," Joan gave a noncommittal answer, making sure she didn't shrug. People did not shrug at death. Joan knew this. "Sherlock is going to wind up hurting herself, chasing after you." Her jaw clenched, glaring at Jen. _That_ was unacceptable. Joan knew people died, had long ago accepted it as a fact of life.

It was _her_ people that mattered. They were not allowed to die.

"What's the point of a game without a little risk!?" Jen yelled, and then she was spinning away, laughing, a high, peeling, maniacal sound. Joan's lip curled. She didn't bother to fight as a big man--colder than Moriarty; she found another kin in him, in more ways than one, judging by sharp eyes and the lingering scent of gunpowder--dragged her to her feet. He removed the ropes, but replaced them with a vest. Her teeth started to chatter; cold or fury or both, she couldn't say.

"Oh, do put her jacket back on her, Seb," Jen called, a sweet trill in her falsely high voice. "Wouldn't want her to catch her _death."_ The laugh was more real this time. Joan bared her teeth, not because of the implied threat to her (more than implied, there were explosives strapped to her _chest_ after all) but certainly the one implied to Sherlock. That was why Moriarty wanted to hurt her, after all. Because Sherlock cared so deeply, she did, and she was very good at self-immolation.

Joan opened her mouth for a breath that swole her lungs, and she recalled the burn of a bullet as it slit the muscles of her thigh, the scream of her shoulder as another bullet dug in deep. She brought to mind fire, the sensation of it eating away, her arm thin and pale and bright as she tested herself. She remembered pain--a foot against her ribs, a knife curling down her belly, a tooth skittering out across the floor--and when she breathed out, Jen screamed. 'Seb' froze behind her, and it was Joan's turn to laugh.

Moriarty turned to stare, but Sherlock's voice interrupted, and Joan clenched her teeth as a communicator was shoved into her ear and she was shoved in turn out, into the open. She stared at Sherlock, trying to find her 'self.' Her character, as Sherlock had called it. Who was Joan Watson? Her expression blanked.

She fell back on the easiest route, parroting Moriarty as she hastily dragged herself back together, picking up the shards and shoving them back where they belonged. Memories locked themselves reluctantly away, and Joan spared a moment to wonder what her dreams would be like tonight.

If there was a night to have.

Moriarty was insane, infuriating, and a dead woman walking because _Joan was going to kill her._ She stared at the dot on Sherlock's forehead, and it wasn't hard at all to picture her fingers around _Jen_ 's throat, her nails digging into dark eyes, her combat knife drawing blood from creative places. Joan had never previously shown a predisposition towards torture. In fact, in the past, she had always found it distasteful. But all she could see was red, and she knew with unerring certainty that if Sherlock died _the perpetrators would Regret._

Joan took a deep breath, forcibly calming herself. Nothing to do so long as that red dot sat steadily on Sherlock.

_"I will burn the heart out of you,"_ Jen hissed and Joan turned, slow, a predator curving in threat. Her eyes met Moriarty's and for just one moment Joan saw a flicker of fear.

The predator smiled, her prey's scent blazing a trail through her senses. No matter what happened this day, Joan would not forget the fear in Jen Moriarty's eyes, would never mistake or overlook her peculiar emotional patterns, would always be prepared to send her to the bloody grave she deserved.

And in those black eyes, Joan saw that very same knowledge, from the end of the prey, and it satisfied her.

She didn't mind being called Sherlock's pet; she couldn't argue it, not truthfully. She displayed many aspects similar to a guard dog, from fighting (killing) in Sherlock's defense, to dogging the mad woman's heels near constantly. Joan sort of was Sherlock's pet. She just happened to be a very clever, very deadly pet. Really, Joan could have gotten on just fine with Moriarty (or at least, she could have ignored her) if only she hadn't imprinted like a damn baby duck on Sherlock.

Consulting criminal. Versus consulting detective. Alright, that made sense. And it was probably too late to try and shoo Sherlock into an alternative career. Damn.

Phone call. Confusion. Relief. And Sherlock's hands suddenly on her, shoving and yanking, and Joan just leaned into it, let herself slouch into Sherlock as she tore the vest off and sent it skidding away. Joan considering kissing her then, brushing her lips against that long neck, against a wide red mouth, an elegant jawline. She probably would have-- _she would have, couldn't have resisted_ \--but Moriarty returned and there was the gun, the explosion, Joan dragging Sherlock out by the collar, trying to shield the taller woman with her own compact body.

By the time they made it home, after Lestrade and Mycroft and all manner of other nonsense, Joan's leg and shoulder were twinging ( _throbbing, aching, hurting, twingetwingetwinge_ ) and she still wanted to kiss her flatmate. But she always wanted to kiss Sherlock, really, so she headed upstairs for a shower, and then she made tea and propped herself up on the couch to watch crap telly until her fingers stopped twitching for a gun and a bullet between Moriarty's eyes.

She stayed up all night, Sherlock alternating between the violin and experiments, and the twinging and the twitching never stopped. In the morning, she called in sick, then finally went to bed for a fitful sleep. She dreamed of fire.

Someday, she knew, even in her dreams, that Jen's scream would come back to haunt her more dangerously than the bomb ever could.

 

 

"Delivery for Doctor Watson!"

Joan accepted the cardboard box with a smile for Sarah. Theirs was a relationship doomed from the start, Joan knew, but appreciated that Sarah seemed to consider her a friend nonetheless. It was convenient to be liked.

It was addressed to 'Jo' Watson. Joan tilted her head, padding back into her office. "I'm gonna take ten," she told Sarah, throwing another smile over her shoulder. Maintaining likeability. Sarah nodded and trotted off to go do Sarah things.

Sherlock would definitely come investigate if she texted to ask if mailing bombs was part of the game, Joan determined. It was probably not a bomb, and she didn't really feel like explaining why Moriarty was sending her presents unless she had to. Although, she didn't actually know why, come to think of it.

A secret bomb just didn't seem like Moriarty's style, she decided after some consideration.

Joan sat down, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, and opened the box.

It didn't explode. Good news for all.

She carefully tugged at the paper within, noting the melted ice packs. She couldn't say she was particularly surprised to find blood inside the paper. The bouquet of roses made out of paper-thin skin, with carved bone for stems, was a surprise. Joan delicately extracted them, noting a thick 'ribbon' of hair held it all together. A ludicrous urge to sniff them hit her, but she refrained on account that dead flesh was not known to smell appealing. They didn't smell strongly of rot yet though, at least.

Joan pondered her options as she turned the morbid flowers over a few times.

It would be rude to just throw them away. 

Was she still being polite to the crazy criminal lady?

"Hmmm." After some deliberation, Joan was irritated to realized she didn't know. Huffing, she placed the not-roses back in the box, pulled off her gloves, and snagged her cell phone.

Sherlock actually picked up for once, although it was with an annoyed, "What?"

Such a _friendly_ flatmate, really. Joan rolled her eyes. "Has anything new come up about Moriarty?"

Sherlock was alert immediately, demanding, "What?" and "Why?" and "Joan what's happened?"

"I think she sent me a present." It was evidence, she had decided, and Joan did not keep evidence from Sherlock. Usually. With that in mind, it was an easy decision, really. Clearly Joan needed to work more on figuring out her rules again though.

"I'll be right there!" Sherlock shouted, and her phone politely informed her that she had been hung up on.

Joan pocketed her phone, closed the box, and went to tell Sarah to pass the rest of today's appointments off to others, Sherlock was on her way. Sarah made some concerned noises but didn't inquire too deeply, used to JoanandSherlock already.

Sherlock arrived within fifteen minutes, which meant she had either traumatized a cabbie, paid one out of the nose, or been unusually close already when Joan called. Possibly all of the above, or probably any number of other scenarios Joan couldn't think of.

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded the moment she burst in.

"Flowers," Joan answered, gesturing to the box and enjoying Sherlock's look of confusion.

In the week since the pool incident, Joan had mostly been ignored and abused, even more so than usual. They had yet to take a new case, and neither of them were in anything like an even semi-decent mood. For Sherlock, this was bad for everyone else. Joan knew that her own mood was mostly bad for her--or at least, bad for her acting. It was very difficult to determine what fell within the parameters of her own character when she was still seeing red at entirely random intervals. She was only lucky everyone was willing to chalk up irregularities to being recently kidnapped.

"Flowers?" Sherlock repeated, looking over the box (entirely unremarkable cardboard, although she lingered over the label) for a good few seconds before actually opening it. Joan watched with a steady gaze and twitching fingers as Sherlock went through Moriarty's 'gift.'

There was no sender name, of course, but Joan had no doubt it was from Jen. When Sherlock unearthed a note, it only made Joan all the more certain.

"'I see why she keeps you'," Sherlock read aloud, scowling.

"She called me your pet," Joan supplied helpfully. "I guess I impressed her when I jumped on her." Or when she realized Joan was better at acting. That could be it.

"It was very impressive," Sherlock mused absently. Joan honestly could not tell if it was sincere or not. She decided to be pleased anyway.

_I am going to get kidnapped again,_ Joan thought in a moment of startling clarity, but it was a fleeting thought and before she could even develop an opinion on it, she was distracted by Sherlock.

One of these days, that was going to get her killed. She didn't have much of an opinion on that either.

"What do you think?" she asked, leg jiggling, uncomfortable with Sherlock so much as being near anything Moriarty had had her hands on, metaphorically or literally. This was a terrible idea. Joan should not have called her, why had she done that? Evidence, right. Bollocks to evidence, she was never letting Sherlock near Moriarty again.

"Hmmm," Sherlock answered, which Joan took to mean 'I've got lots of ideas but I'm too much of a prat to share.'

"Keeping me in the dark has historically not worked well for you," Joan pointed out helpfully, absently watching Sherlock's messy emotions. Worry and fascination and anger and curiosity and excited and yesnononoyesyesnoyes.

Sherlock, of course, waved this off. "Tell me if anything else happens, I'm going to the lab," she announced, picking up the box and all but running for the door, trailing _case!_ in her wake. Joan stared after her a long minute. Then she fetched her revolver from her desk, tucked it into her jacket, and left, nodding at Sarah on the way out.

She needed only to turn a corner before Moran made himself visible, a blip in her radar. He stared at her. Joan stared back.

"Tell your boss--I am a very loyal dog," she broke the stalemate. Moran tilted his head, considering, as she quirked an impatient brow. His emotions were a huff of air, so miniscule as to be presumed non-existent. There was an undercurrent, though, which felt a great deal like understanding. Suddenly he grinned, feral and sharp. He gave her a sharp nod before turning and striding off. Joan took the time to make sure there was no one else lingering about, no blips or ill-intents. There was one of Mycroft's observers, she noted, but no where they could have seen the exchange; they never kept track of her as well when Sherlock wasn't about, although usually they were better than this. Moran's influence, she realized quickly, and rolled her eyes. Dramatic bastards, every one of them. She trotted out of the alley and headed back to the practice, as through her head a thought ran on repeat:

_Never boring._

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. That's it for this part. The ending is shit, I know. This one was the first I typed up; I kept forgetting Joan's an empath, as you may have noticed. The stories I intend to post are actually better, this one just sort of...sets the mood or something. Gives backstory. Etc.


End file.
